


gravity

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15322038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: After a bad mission, Sam comes home to Jack and lets him take care of her.





	gravity

Sam comes home covered in grime, shaking, and exhausted. It was a bad mission–the kind that ends in gunfire and staff blasts, a shot of adrenaline that leaves her shaking, and dragging injured SGC members bleeding and groaning through the Stargate. 

Jack appears in the kitchen doorway, towel slung over his shoulder and soft smile on his face. The smile quickly morphs into one of concern and he crosses the hallway in a few lanky strides, taking her in his arms. 

She falls into his arms, breathing in the scent of him and wrapping her arms around his waist. His arms are like bands around her, holding her still and anchoring her to the Earth, stronger than any gravitational force. 

His lips fall to her ear, brushing along the shell of her ear. “Bad one?”

She nods against his chest, shaking against his body. He smooths a hand down her back, rubbing up and down and soothing the best he can. She thinks back to the blood that was on her hands a few hours ago and the whiz of bullets and the smell of gunpowder and holds him tighter, wills the feel and smell of him to block everything else out. 

The house smells of garlic and brussels sprouts and her stomach growls but she still feels so damn dirty and untethered. He slips a hand down to her waist and into her hand, tugging her gently down the hall and to the master bathroom. 

“I got you, Carter,” he rumbles against her ear, pressing a light kiss to her temple. She goes on autopilot, lets him take care of her, lets him hold her up and tie her–tether her–back to the Earth, to the moment. 

He sits her down on the closed lid of the toilet and sets about running a steaming hot bath for her, adding her favorite lavender bubble bath and oils. Nodding in satisfaction when the temperature is right, he turns his attention to her and helps her undress. He slips his hands beneath her shirt and kisses her arms. “Lift,” he says, gently. 

Her hands go above her head and he lifts the thin black shirt from her body, stripping her bra from her and leaning forward to press a kiss to her sternum and lips. The kisses aren’t meant to be desire-inducing, but reassuring and comforting. She sighs and threads shaking fingers through his hair in thanks. 

He stands and tugs her up and his hands go to the button of her pants, unbuttoning and unzipping and pushing her pants and underwear down in one swoop. From his knees, he kisses her knees and calves and taps the back of each calf, silently asking her to lift her feet so he can pull the fabric from her legs.

When she is bare before him, he leans over and turns off the taps, dipping his fingers into the water to check the temperature. It’s perfect and he tugs her forward, brushing her hair from her face and kissing her softly. 

“Soak,” he commands, voice light but firm. She obeys easily; needs to follow his lead and lean on him in this way. He holds her hand and helps her into the tub, watching her body sluice through the lavender-scented water. 

She sighs as her body disappears beneath the hot water, weaving her fingers with his. He presses a kiss to her forehead and nuzzles against her hair briefly. 

“Stay,” she murmurs, softly, tugging on his hand. He cups her face, stroking her cheek and kissing her briefly. He is her rock, her anchoring compass, and she needs him. 

He hums against her lips and pulls away, bringing their joined hands up to his lips and kissing the place where their palms press together. “Let me go turn the stove off and bring you dinner, okay?”

With reluctance, she lets him go and sighs and falls deeper into the water, letting the hot temperature of the tub and the lingering effects of Jack’s kisses relax her and wash away the stress of the day. 

When Jack comes back, a plate of chicken and brussels sprouts and a glass of wine is in his hand. She takes the wine gratefully and takes a healthy sip, setting it to the side. Jack settles beside the tub, cross-legged and groaning when his knees crack. 

He spears a sprout and a piece of chicken onto a fork and lifts it to her mouth, eyebrow raised. She looks between the fork and Jack’s expectant look with derision. “I’m not a child, Jack,” she says, amusement in her voice. 

He grins at her, shrugging. “Humor me. If you’d like I can sing the ‘Here Comes the Airplane’ song.” He frowns and then corrects himself, “Well, more like the ‘Here Comes the X302′ song.”

She laughs but doesn’t open her mouth to let him feed her. He strokes a finger over her sud-covered arm and his face goes soft and open. “Let me take care of you, Sam.”

Affection and love, hot and tangible, rushes through her and her eyes sting with water briefly. The day has left her feeling raw and emotional and Jack is the balm on her nerves and heart–exactly what she needs. 

She cocks an eyebrow and opens her mouth obediently, allowing him to feed her. She groans around the fork at the taste of the garlic and balsamic and pepper of the sprouts and chicken and he grins, pleased. “Good?” he asks, smugly. 

“You know it is.”

She manages a few more bites of food before Jack sets the plate aside, hands going to her hair and massaging her temples. He likes taking care of her this way–loves the intimacy that accompanies the kind of serious, long-term relationship he and Sam have. 

She catches his hand and tugs it down to her mouth, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. This is her center, this is her North Star: Jack O’Neill, a warm home, and a man who loves her–cares for her. 

She tugs him down, kissing him softly over the edge of the tub. He nips at her top lip and smoothes the bite with his tongue. She slides soapy hands into his hair and pulls him closer, keeping their mouths pressed together: intimate and reassuring and  _there._

 _“Sam,”_  he groans, pulling away and licking his lips. His hair stands on end with water and soap and his lips are red. She thinks with a start that her kiss must taste awful–garlic and vinegar and sprouts–but Jack doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, his eyes look dark and pleased. Another proof of intimacy–not all kisses are minty fresh and perfect. They’ve seen each other at their worst, their smelliest, their lowest, their darkest. And still, they stay. 

Jack O’Neill, she decides, is her gravity.


End file.
